Gilbert
by rukushaka
Summary: "Are you serious?" John said finally. "The horse killed Reynolds?" In which there is an unusual murder weapon, John turns 35, and Greg gives him a rather unorthodox gift. No slash. Oneshot.


**I don't own Sherlock.**

**For TYRider.**

* * *

The man was mad. Utterly, undeniably mad.

One could have thought that running after a head of tousled black curls and a billowing Belstaff coat would leave neither time nor space for thought; but had one thought that, one would have been wrong. However much energy was taken up by a clean stride and the steady inhale-exhale of breath, there was always some left over for mental exercise. For the most part, John reflected, this mental space was taken up by an analysis of the current and ever-changing situation, a log of hundred ways to keep Sherlock safe, and a rehearsal of his regular post-case _for a genius you can be a complete idiot _speech.

This time was different. There was no analysis, no log, and even no rehearsal. The victim was dead, the perpetrator was safely in custody, and John's mind contained little more conscious thought than _he really is a lanky git _and _this place reeks. _Greg's presence at his side was a pleasant addition to the scenario; the three dozen horses of various colourings and sizes that eyed them balefully from the stalls on either side of the aisle as they thundered past were not so much.

And really, there was no reason for them to be running - or none that John could see, at least. Finding the murder weapon was important, sure, but it was hardly so urgent as to require sprinting the length of a racecourse barn. The time-sensitive parts of the case - for example, catching the bandy-legged perp as he tried to make his escape over a nearby security fence after being outed by one of his mates — were over. There wasn't much left to do: Sherlock would do the usual dramatic explanation, Greg would make his usual wry comments, and they would go home.

Logically, then, they were running the length of a stable for no other reason than Because Sherlock Said So - which, in all fairness, was the reason for a good sixty percent of anything he did these days. Make Tea Because Sherlock Said So. Text This Number Because Sherlock Said So. Draw The Line At Setting Fire To Sherlock's Dressing Gown Even If Sherlock Said So. Their friendship was a fine balance of push and pull - on Sherlock's part no less than on John's. Sherlock would demand tea; John would capitulate on the principle of _lose the battle to win the war_. John would demand basic respect for victims at crime scenes - "No licking, no biting, no mutilation - I don't care if they have a rare skin disease, you're not taking samples without permission;" Sherlock would stare blankly as if he didn't understand the logic behind the request but would accede.

This delicate and largely unconscious give-and-take was the reason for their current dash. Sherlock had stopped mid-sentence during his rounding-up-the-case spiel, gone far away in his head for exactly two point five seconds, and then taken off at a sprint down the aisle of the barn; John and Greg had exchanged looks and followed.

Which brought them to this moment in time: as they reached the last few stalls in the line, Sherlock stopped as abruptly as if he'd never heard of the Principle of the Conservation of Momentum, leaving John to pull his internal handbrake, grab Greg by the arm, slew around in an undignified ninety-degree turn and bring them both up against a stall door with a muffled _thump._

"There," Sherlock announced, gesturing into the stall. "Your murder weapon, Lestrade."

As far as John could see, there was nothing in the stall except a feed bucket, a water trough, scattered hay, a pile of poop in the corner, and a pint-sized miniature horse.

Greg, too, was looking flummoxed, "Murder weapon? Where?"

"There," Sherlock repeated helpfully.

John exchanged a despairing look with Greg and said sarcastically, "Maybe Cobb hit Reynolds with the feed bucket."

"Or suffocated him in the poo patch," Greg returned.

They turned impatient eyes on Sherlock, who sighed. "_The horse._"

The accused was nosing at a scrap of hay and pointedly ignoring them.

"Are you serious?" John said finally. "The horse killed Reynolds?"

"The horse killed Reynolds," Sherlock confirmed.

Greg looked at Sherlock, looked at the miniature horse, and looked back at Sherlock, "If you're having me on - "

"Cobb wanted Reynolds out of the way," Sherlock said impatiently, "so he sent Reynolds in to fill the feed bucket, locked the door, and spooked the horse. He would have had to judge the proximity between the two carefully - if they were too close there wouldn't be enough momentum, but too far and there wouldn't be enough force. You can see the blood splatter on the far wall from the kick connecting with his head - it's low down, that fits with the height of the horse and the level of Reynolds' head as he bent down to fill the bucket. It would have been easy enough to cover up as an accident, but Cobb tried to be smart: he dragged Reynolds outside, bashed the head in again to cover the obvious mark of a horse hoof, and planted a badly written love letter in his pocket in a terrible attempt to make the investigators think it was a lover's quarrel gone wrong."

This took a minute or two to sink in.

"That's all very well," said Greg, "but why was there a miniature horse in a barn full of racehorses in the first place?"

"It's the winner's owner's daughter's pet," John said promptly. "I overheard some of the grooms talking earlier when I was stretching my legs between races."

'Stretching his legs' was his euphemism for 'placing a few bets', something he enjoyed doing on a casual basis when he had the means and time for it. It was a good place to chat with other racegoers and find information on the race favourites, and the fact that the grooms and jockeys and stablehands took their breaks not far away was an added bonus. It was the sort of thing he wouldn't have thought twice about before moving in with Sherlock; these days he hadn't thought twice about not taking advantage of it. It had been the work of moments to slip through the fence and mingle, gathering as much intel as he could before the next set of races began.

"Well, I'm afraid she's about be disappointed," Greg said. "Her pet's evidence in a homicide investigation now; it can't stay here. I'll call a team in to take down it to the Yard's Animal Holding Centre."

"He," said John.

"What?"

"He, not it. The horse is a gelding."

Greg reached for the clipboard hanging on a nearby nail as Sherlock frowned, "Gelding?"

"Male horse. Castrated."

"How do you know?"

John grinned. "I always wanted a horse. When I was a kid, it would've been dead impractical - we were in town, no land to speak of, nowhere to keep one, but it didn't stop me wishing. My parents kept saying no, but they couldn't stop me reading up on the subject. In horse-person terms he's sorrel - that's chestnut brown - and probably a yearling. I'd say about four hands high."

"Says here," Greg said slowly, mouth twitching, "that his name is Aristotle."

John having spent much of his childhood and teen years yearning for a horse would have been no surprise to the D.I. - it had cropped up now and again in their weekly pub talks, and Greg's memory was _very _good.

"Aristotle?" John repeated. "Sounds a bit… well. Pretentious."

"Who - ?" Sherlock began.

"Greek philosopher."

"Oh," in that tone of voice which meant the information was being deleted as he spoke.

"Aristotle, yeah," Greg said. "Or, to give the horse his full name, Aristotle Plato Gilbert Cicero."

_Definitely pretentious, _John thought, and repeated the sentiment aloud, adding, "Philosopher, philosopher, presumably philosopher, and philosopher. That's four philosophers."

"A tad overkill, isn't it?" Greg agreed cheerily. He replaced the clipboard on its hook and reached for his mobile, "Right. I need to call in the animal squad. You boys probably don't need to hang around; come in to the office tomorrow - no, that's your birthday, John, I won't drag you in then. Let's make it Thursday. You know the routine: bring the standard write-up with you, I'll check over it, add it to the report and take your official statements."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, go for it. I'll see you tomorrow night anyway - The Green Man at eight?"

John nodded, "I'm working until seven; might head straight across from the surgery. I'll flick you a text and let you know."

"Great. See you then."

* * *

Wednesday started with a proper sit-down breakfast with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, during which he received a few small gifts and endured an out-of-tune but heartfelt rendition of _Happy Birthday. _Sherlock could sing, and sing well - he simply chose not to - whereas Mrs Hudson couldn't sing - and did. John's shift at the clinic was no better and no worse than any other work day; the boss shouted him coffee, the nurses and receptionist wished him many happy returns, and that was that. Dinner with Greg and the boys was riotous as always, leaving John time to do no more than raise a curious brow when Greg slipped a card into his hand, on which was written a brief and enigmatic _Happy birthday, Johnny. I'll give it to you tomorrow at the Yard. Greg._

All in all, it was a pleasantly uneventful way to mark the dawn of his thirty-fifth year in the world.

* * *

Thursday began with a 6am wake-up call, courtesy of Sherlock's latest experiment exploding in the kitchen. The stuff was bright blue and stank like the blazes.

"Sherlock!"

John armed himself with work boots, a breath mask, and heavy duty gloves; Sherlock emerged, took one look at the mess, muttered something unintelligible, and retreated to his bedroom. John dragged him back out, handed him a pair of gloves and brush, and ordered him to get scrubbing.

It took them over an hour to get the mess cleaned up - the gloop was not only spread across the ceiling, but had wormed its way into the microwave, dripped out again onto the floor, and was making its way slowly along the crease between floor and wall down the hallway toward Sherlock's room. The kitchen would never be operating-theater-sterile, but by quarter past seven it was at least clean. John sent Sherlock to get rid of the gloves, mask, and hazardous waste buckets, nipped upstairs to grab a clean towel, and was back downstairs and locked in the bathroom, hot water pounding, before the madman returned.

Showered, clean clothed, and breakfasted, they made it out the door shortly after nine and were soon at the Yard.

Greg looked up as they entered his office, quirked an eyebrow, and said brightly, "Been a busy morning, has it?"

"It has been, yeah, but how did you know?" John frowned.

Greg stood and moved around the desk: a finger swiped under his ear and emerged with a blob of violent blue clinging to it. "You missed a bit."

It was only slightly embarrassing. And why hadn't his see-observe-deduce genius of a flatmate told him? John looked sideways at Sherlock, who shrugged and said unapologetically, "You made me wait a full thirty minutes for the shower."

Revenge. He was such a _child._

Sherlock stepped forward and slapped their part of the write-up on to Greg's desk. "Your report, Lestrade."

"Right," Greg tore his amused glance from John's wrathful face, wiped off his hands with a tissue, binned it, and settled back into his chair. "Take a seat," he invited, flipping open the cover page; "this shouldn't take long."

John settled his right ankle on his left knee and slid a book on police procedures from the nearby bookshelf; beside him, Sherlock had swivelled sideways, putting his back against one arm of the chair and slinging his legs over the other, and was engrossed with his mobile.

Greg spent ten minutes skim-reading the report, then nodded, "That looks good enough. I'll just grab Eavenson and we can go down to one of the interview rooms and get your statements for the record."

There was a predictable grumble of "Dull" from beside John. He ignored it.

Standard procedure being followed - _"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and Sergeant Koda Eavenson taking the statements of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, and John Watson M.D., with regard to the murder of Jayne Reynolds by Malcolm Cobb" _- the taking of their statements took close on an hour. Eavenson thanked them and strode off upstairs, Sherlock drifted pointedly toward the door, and John was about to follow when Greg called him back.

"Hold up a minute, John," and then, as Sherlock huffed an impatient breath, "no, I don't need you, genius. Just John."

"Go ahead, Sherlock," John said. "I'll text you when we're - "

The door was already swinging closed behind Sherlock.

" - done," he finished lamely. Typical. Greg had been right, that first night during the Study in Pink case, when he'd invaded Sherlock's space to make him pay attention, shaken a paternal finger in his direction and, at Sherlock's protest that the drugs bust was childish, had sighed and said, "Well, I'm dealing with a child."

He raised an eyebrow at Greg, "What did you need me for, again?"

The older man looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then jerked his head toward the door, "Downstairs."

The message in his birthday card yesterday wasn't far from John's mind; he grew more and more curious as Greg lead him down to the ground floor, out a side door, and across the courtyard to a long, low building which, if described in a real estate catalogue, would inevitably involve the words 'weathered', 'sturdy', and 'some work needed'.

The inside was clean and bright, a far cry from the dim dank that John had been expecting. Greg nodded to the girl at the reception counter and made for a wide door on their right. The hallway beyond was more in keeping with the exterior of the building: below them, scrubbed lino floors didn't have a hope of hiding the years of wear and tear; above them were cracked plaster ceilings; to their right, filthy leadlight windows did little to keep out the pervasive cold while letting in no more than a feeble approximation of daylight; and their left…

Ah. So that was it.

To their left were massive rooms, sectioned off from the hall by walls that were solid wood on the bottom half and metal grating on the top. Looking into the nearest room, John saw that the space inside was further divided up into cages or pens, with a narrow aisle running the length of the space and ending in another door in the far wall. The pens were packed; the noise was terrific. The doors to each room proclaimed their intended recipients: _Dogs. Cats. Rabbits. Horses. Other._

At the _Horses _door Greg halted and fished out his keys.

John couldn't stop the slow grin spreading across his face, "Greg. Are we seriously going in there?"

The twist and _click _of his key in the lock was enough of an answer. They slipped inside and let the door swing closed behind them.

The room was clean and cool, the stalls down each side of the aisle empty but for one: in the first stall to the left, a pint-sized miniature horse was nosing at a scrap of hay and pointedly ignoring them.

The noise from the adjacent rooms was so loud, John thought, that they would have a hard time hearing themselves talk. Greg must have realised the same thing; with a soundless oath, he hit a switch on the wall beside the door, causing screens to slide up from slots in the walls and cover the metal grating. The noise dulled at once. Presumably it was a soundproofing measure.

"That's better," said Greg, voice echoing slightly in the open space.

It wasn't that he didn't have his suspicions, but he may as well ask… "Why're we here?"

"For a visit," was the noncommittal answer.

In other words, he'd get his answer, just not quite yet. Okay. John slid the bolt on the stall door and let himself in. He didn't care if Greg thought he was crazy; it was polite to talk to someone when visiting them. "Hey, uh… what was his name?"

"Aristotle Plato Gilbert Cicero."

John picked the least ridiculous of the options. "Hey, Gilbert."

Gilbert said nothing.

He ran a hand over the horse's side, feeling the softness of the short hair, and combed his fingers through the mane, getting stuck halfway down and gently disentangling them from a knot of hair.

He directed his next words over his shoulder at Greg, "I don't suppose you've got any - "

A thud interrupted him. Greg had dropped the bucket of brushes and combs on a bench and was in the process of shrugging out of his suit jacket. Seeing John's surprised look, he nodded to the halter and lead rope left hanging over the stall and said, "Come on, then. We haven't got all day."

John swallowed his perplexity. Gilbert was soon cross-tied in the aisle and the two men had their shirt sleeves rolled up and were giving him the brushing of his life.

"Didn't know you had experience with horses," John said finally. It was half a question.

Greg shrugged, "I don't have much. I did a summer at a horse camp after I finished high school. I thought it'd be grand, you know, learning how to ride and getting paid to do it and all that. Turned out it was mostly grooming the horses and putting the tack on them so their rich and snotty owners could come out from town for a couple of days and go on a nice trail ride and a picnic."

He switched out the curry comb for a body brush and continued, "I barely got enough riding time over the three months to learn to trot around an arena. Tell you what, though, my legs still remember how to hold that position. Grip with the thighs, knees in, heels down…"

"It's not something you forget in a hurry," John agreed, "especially when it's been reinforced by a few dozen tumbles."

His phone beeped. He ignored it until he'd finished combing out Gilbert's tail, handed the comb to Greg to do the mane, and stepped across to where their jackets were slung across the low stall wall.

_+Meet me in Lestrade's office in twenty minutes. Don't be late. SH+_

He rolled his eyes and tapped out a reply: _+Should be done by then. Will text when ETA 5min. JW+_

"Sherlock?" Greg replaced the comb in the brush bucket.

"Yeah. He's nearly done, wants me to meet him back in your office in twenty."

Greg nodded, and they went about the business of returning Gilbert to his stall with calm efficiency. Eight minutes later the floor was swept clean - or clean-er, at least - the brushes were put away, and John was rolling down his shirt sleeves. Greg leant against the closed stall door, fixed John with a piercing look, and said, "You can have him if you want."

"Have who?" John asked, distracted. The button on his shirt cuff was being particularly fiddly.

"Gilbert."

That made him look up. "Did you just offer to give me a miniature horse?"

"I did."

A pause, and then: "Why?"

"Happy birthday."

Almost involuntarily, John's gaze swung to the stall, where Gilbert was quietly looking at him, and back to Greg. They had the same expression of liquid brown watchfulness in their eyes.

"Can you do that?"

"Wouldn't offer if I couldn't."

That was true; he'd never yet known Greg to make an offer and not come through on it. A serene golden sort of happiness was flooding his veins, but there was one overwhelming impracticality to the whole situation… "I live in the middle of London."

"Give it some thought, anyway," was the unruffled response. "The owner's kid doesn't want him back; he'll stay here for a few weeks and then be transferred to a public animal shelter. You're welcome to come back and get to know him, give him another grooming or whatever." A pause, and then he added, "You've already got one murder weapon; why not add a live one to the collection?"

Head whirling, John shrugged into his jacket and followed Greg from the room.

* * *

Sherlock looked up impatiently as they entered Greg's office; his mouth, already open to deliver some blasting invective on their tardiness, snapped shut, his eyes narrowed, and he glided to a halt in front of John.

Lean fingers reached out and plucked a strand of horse hair from John's shirt collar. Something like a quiver of glee passed across his face and he said, apropos of nothing, "My parents live in the country. They have an unused barn on the property; I'm sure we could do it up without too much trouble."

There was a moment of stillness, a glorious golden sliver of suspended time, rippling with anticipation…

Sherlock flicked the strand of horse hair from his fingers and strode for the door.

"We'll be in again tomorrow, Lestrade."

And they were gone.


End file.
